Page 39 of Wicked Dreams

And sure enough, my eyes burn and water. Tears drip down my cheeks by the time I’m done. My face is hot, and I wipe at it with the back of my hand as soon as I set the knife down.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I sniff.

“Let’s bring those onions over here, we’re going to caramelize them.”

I bring the board over and use the knife to slide the tiny pieces into the pan.

He takes both from me and hands me a wooden spoon. “Just move it around constantly so nothing burns.”

With that, I man the stove, and he chops something else.

I don’t even know what we’re making, and I think we’re past the point of asking.

It isn’t until we have a simmering, meat red sauce in front of me, with a pot of pasta boiling on the diagonal burner, that the Italian-ness of it hits me. And also, splatters of sauce hit me—well, the apron. Little speckles that are nearly orange. I changed into a sweatshirt when I got home, and I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about staining the white uniform shirt.

We’ve made spaghetti.

“A time-old classic,” Robert says.

The front door opens, and Lenora’s sing-song voice floats ahead of her entrance.

“It smells amazing in here!” She comes into the kitchen. “Oh, Margo, you’re cooking!”

My face burns, but I don’t know what to say. Sorry for using your apron? I hope I didn’t accidentally poison the tomato sauce?

She doesn’t wait for a reply, though, and comes over and hugs me.

It takes me a minute to unlock my muscles and hug her back. Touching is a weird thing in foster care. It gets to the point that you can’t really trust anyone, especially once you’re a teenager.

I survived all of that.

She rubs my back in small circles, and I lean my cheek on her shoulder. I close my eyes, absorbing her warmth. But then it’s over.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should’ve asked?—”

“It was just what I needed,” I say.

“Margo came home early from school,” Robert says. “She wasn’t feeling well.”

Lenora tuts and touches my forehead with the back of her hand. It’s so… well…motherly, that my eyes burn for the fifteenth time this afternoon. And, unfortunately, it’s the kindness of the small gesture that breaks the dam.

Or maybe it was the onions.

Either way, I can’t stop the flood of tears. My face crumples.

“Oh, Margo,” Lenora whispers. “It’s okay, honey.”

She hugs me again, tighter, and I try to remember how to breathe. And then Robert is joining in, chuckling to himself.

“I felt left out,” he whispers above our heads.

I laugh, too, and Lenora follows.

When I’ve collected myself, I slowly step out of their embrace.

“You’re home,” Lenora says firmly. “I believe that, and I hope you do, too.”

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